


Me and Mr. Jones

by nirvhannahcornell



Category: Soundgarden (Band)
Genre: Doggy Style, F/M, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, One Night Stands, One Shot, Roleplay, imagine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 15:34:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19276216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirvhannahcornell/pseuds/nirvhannahcornell
Summary: Picture this, dear reader: you are at a Pearl Jam show and you meet one of the new kids on the block. You are hanging upside down and your bra is unbuttoned.





	Me and Mr. Jones

He is your boyfriend for the night even though you had a boyfriend of your own.  
You sit on the edge of one of the concrete steps right across from the pavement stretched outside of the venue; the cool desert breeze blows through your hair. You await for your posse but you have no clue if or when they would show up that evening. You had driven here in your rental car straight from the airport in the heart of downtown Los Angeles, and prior to then, you had flown down from Seattle. They, too, hailed from the Emerald City: interestingly, you know nothing about them. All you know about is their name: Pearl Jam. Meanwhile another band, Jane’s Addiction, will serve as opening act for them in a little less than an hour.  
You took a seat on there to eat the sandwich you had packed prior to leaving Seattle. You had dressed in all black, from your low cut blouse and your Beatles pendant to your jeans and your Chuck Taylors, and you had tousled your hair on the plane and then some more before you had stepped out of the car.  
Every time you take a bite of the sandwich, a few crumbs fell onto your chest and subsequently your shirt, and thus, every so often, you pause to brush off the crumbs and move the hem of your shirt about so as to move them out of bra and on the inside of the fabric. You clear my throat: how you want a drink of some kind right at that moment to complement the sandwich.  
A man walks past you but you pay no attention to him other than making room for him as he strides up the steps to the gate behind you. Apparently it is the gate separating the walkway from the corridor into a nearby casino. You pay no attention to what the man is saying until a guard refuses to let him through the gate.  
“I’m with the band,” he tells the guard in a light West Coast accent. His voice is light but carries insofar that you have to turn around to look at him for yourself. Although you sit down on the edge of the step, he towers over you with his lanky, slender body clothed in all black and his long wave of golden blond hair atop his head. He turns towards you, but keeps his gaze fixed upon the guard, who shakes his head at the man.  
“Okay, maybe not technically speaking, but I do know them,” he insists.  
“I’m sorry, I can’t let you in,” the guard tells him off. The man scoffs, and rolls his eyes, and then he turns to you with a smile upon his face.  
“How are you?” he asks.  
“I am well—waiting for my friends,” you reply, holding the last two bites of the sandwich in your hand.  
“Oh I hear you. May I offer you a better place to sit? You don’t look very comfortable.”  
“That’s very kind of you, but I’m fine, I promise.”  
“No, no, I insist.” He glances about the area and then he points out a doorway on the side of the venue.  
“There! Here—” He holds out his hand for you to take. You are reluctant but he seems kind enough, and you are going to be alone for a while, too, and thus you take his hand. You finish your sandwich and then you stand next to him for a moment before he guides you over to the door.  
He pushes open the heavy wooden door, and you find yourselves in a tight, crowded play room, packed with poker tables, a buffet line, and bright amber lights dangling down from the ceiling: this is a room like one straight out of the nearby casino, except this one strictly forbids smoking cigarettes. Instead, there’s a more rank odor emerging from the crowd, one that makes you think of rotten eggs; there’s another one in there that makes you think of a blowtorch. As the two of you are walking about the edge of the room, you oversee some of the poker and blackjack tables and wonder if any of this here is even legal.  
“Stand back, stand back—” He beckons you back from the final table full of people before a narrow corridor: you notice one person holding a syringe in one hand. You turn away, but before turning your back on the table, you spot a black substance inside. Black licorice? No. Something else. Something more sinister.  
“This way, this way...” He leads you down the narrow corridor to a short but narrow stairwell. He ascends the stairs first and, once you realize you have nothing to worry about, you follow him up to another corridor. Walking down the hall, you look down to see the drum kit atop a square black platform, a half dozen bass guitars of different colors stood upon their racks, a few amplifiers, and a myriad of cables covering the floor. You see a sea of incoming audience members away from the edge of the stage.  
You are above the very stage Jane’s Addiction and Pearl Jam will be performing on very soon.  
But this man continues to lead the way to a small but cozy room, tucked off to the side and away from the stage. The two of you step inside of this room, which has a love seat and a red metal floor lamp tucked in the far corner next to the tiny window looking out to the pitch dark dirt lot and the desert foothills.  
“It’s okay,” he encourages you, taking a seat on the sofa and patting the cushion next to him. “I won’t hurt you, I promise.”  
You sigh through your nose and have a seat.  
“I brought you up here because I see you around town all the time,” he confesses. You are taken aback.  
“Do you now?” you ask him.  
“Oh, yeah. It was just kind of an odd chance to see you here, too, like I wasn’t at all expecting it. I’m still kind of the new boy, too, so... I don’t really know anyone well enough yet.”  
“Oh?”  
“Yeah. And I was wondering—if you don’t mind me saying this to you at all, I think you are very attractive.”  
You smile at him. Maybe you can trust him.  
“Well, I think that’s very kind of you,” you confess to him, “and I think you’re pretty cute, to be honest.” You stare into one another’s eyes and you see him relaxing as he leans back into the soft love seat. You find yourself leaning back as well. You watch him snuggle closer to you; he brings his face closer to you and you can smell the gentle, clean smell left behind in his blond hair. You want to tell this man you have a boyfriend but he is swallowing you whole with that gaze.  
You can’t help yourself: you lunge in for a kiss. You kiss again, and again, and again, and again, and then he throws his arms around you. His tongue is like velvet, slithering its way into your mouth; the smooth silky skin of his lips meets yours and his hands slide their way up your back, right underneath your shirt.  
You feel him peeling off your shirt: carefully, he takes it off for you so you are showing him your bra. He puts your shirt at the head of the love seat before he gestures for you to come closer to him.  
“Come here,” he coaxes as he leans back, “I didn’t catch your name, by the way.”  
“My name’s not important,” you answer, breathing hard.  
“Ah, you wanna do a little role play I see,” he teases, cracking you another large toothed grin. “I’ll be... Mr. Jones.”  
“Mr. Jones?”  
“Yeah, like in Bob Dylan’s song ‘Ballad of a Thin Man’.”  
“‘Something is happening but you don’t know what it is, do you—’”  
“—Mr. Jones,” he finishes the line as he puts his hand around the back of your head and pulls you in closer for the kiss. He fondles your breasts, and even with your bra on, it tickles you.  
You kiss him again and again, until he grips onto your shoulders and swaps places with you. Now he’s over you, straddling your hips with his knobby knees. He strips off his shirt and unfastens his belt.  
“Take off your pants, babe,” he commands. You unbutton your jeans so as to expose your thighs to him. He leans in for the kiss on the insides of your thighs. The feeling makes you gasp and squeak: he’s so close to your lips that he could very easily lick some sugar for himself.  
He sees you huffing and puffing, and then he twirls his finger as if telling you to roll over. You commence, and he helps remove your pants all the while. Your pair of panties is the only thing separating you from him.  
You raise yourself onto your hands and knees like some kind of creature. His fingers curl around your hips: his touch is so gentle and so kind, that you do not expect him to rub against your butt and the backs of your thighs.  
You feel your panties coming off with the help of his fingers. You are breathing as if you have been running a mile at this point.  
And then he thrusts, back and forth, to and fro, his length smacking you right on the spot. He does it, harder and harder with each thrust. It aches but God, does it feel ever so good!  
“Oh—shit! Walk me, baby! Walk me!” you grunt out. He lets out a low, primordial groan followed by a growl akin to that of a wild animal. You gasp and let out a soft moan twice, and then follows it up with a low, prolonged moan from deep inside. Thrust after thrust. You gasp and moan. He is setting you free. He is setting your body free.  
He thrusts the hardest right then and a loud squeal ejaculates from the inside of your throat.  
“Okay, okay, okay! Stop! Stop!” he blurts out. He lets go of your hips and you face plant right into the soft cushion of the love seat. You lift yourself onto your elbow to look back at him. Tossing your hair back, you eye the sweat beading along his breast bone and the hair in his armpit as he raises a hand to push back his blond hair.  
“Wow,” he breathes out. He looks over at you. “How was that?”  
“Invigorating,” is all you can think of and that was touching only the tip of the iceberg. You pick yourself up to put your clothes back on, but he takes his time with his shirt and his belt.  
“Like I said before, I won’t hurt you,” he says, “so when you started squealing, that was when I knew I was going too far.”  
You say nothing as you put your shirt back on over your body, but what you do instead is relish in his consideration for your wellbeing. He sees you as his temple: he wanted you comfortable because he wants to enter the temple like the little dog he imagined himself.  
Once the two of you are dressed, he leads you back out of the room right as the techs are preparing and testing Jane’s Addiction’s set. You are returning to the game room, which is still bustling with gamblers and users galore, and then back out to the night. You see your friends entering the gate at the edge of the lot, and you turn to this man who referred to himself as Mr. Jones.  
“Thank you,” you say to him in a voice so light you may as well have breathed it.  
“No—thank you,” he retorts; and with nothing more to say, he blows you a kiss and flashes you a wink before he turns around. Before you can turn around to call your friends over, he vanishes into the crowd.


End file.
